


Wherever You Are, There Is Eden

by Tammany



Category: Good Omens
Genre: Celestial Love, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 21:00:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20234293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: Just felt like at least trying to create a credible version of what "first time" might be like for two immortal spirit-beings with optional bodies, who are "old Earth hands" gone native. They've *seen* it all and experienced quite a lot--but they've never attempted it with each other, and never attempted integrating the celestial mode and the Earthly. They are an interesting blend of knowledge, experience, and innocence. And they are in love. Heartbreakingly in love.Aziraphale in the initiating role, because reasons.Hope you like. It's probably closer to "mature" than "explicit," but I prefer to play it safe in my labeling about the time the genitalia make themselves known.





	Wherever You Are, There Is Eden

The angel makes the first move; his demon is too busy evading panic by ranting, rocketing around, condemning all the possible threats that lie ahead of them, and playing diva. And drinking. Let us never forget drinking. Aziraphale, familiar after six thousand years, smiles to himself. He’s not the only one with anxiety issues. Fortunately he and Crowley seem to trade off reasonably well.

The way Aziraphale sees it, he’s got this one. So that’s all right.

The very first thing he does is something no human would do, because it’s something no human could do. Grabbing Crowley’s wrist as he rumbles around the back room of the shop for the twentieth time that night, he forces the demon to stop, and look at him. When Crowley is brought to a full stop, just beginning to scowl over the top of his glasses frames, eyes burning gold, Aziraphale grips his other wrist, holding firm and steady—an anchor; a foundation. Then, feeling Crowley open his mind far enough from his seething, serpentine mental coil to even wonder, he strikes.

It is a two-headed lance, a sword that stabs both ways. Aziraphale impales them on it—an aetheric, celestial touch as unmistakable as a kiss—a channel to transmit both angel and demon’s longing.

In one single move it says, “This is how much I ache for you—this is how much you ache for me. This is our reality.”

It’s more than a little scandalous—as scandalous as the tender trace of lips and the tip of a hot tongue on the wrist of a Georgian maiden, communicating desire on the fine skin between the ruffles of a sleeve cuff and the ruffles of a glove. It can’t be mistaken for an accident. It can’t be mistaken for a neutral greeting.

Crowley, like the maiden, gasps, and freezes. Like the maiden, he doesn’t pull away.

Aziraphale, turned lover with all the quaint, gentlemanly elements one might expect of the darling Principality, risks opening his own feelings more, adding to his own vulnerability without forcing the demon further.

The longing is like the faint trace of blood in water…it swirls and eddies, creating beautiful, dangerous flourishes and fractal filigree. Crowley remains still, poised, unmoving—but through the link Aziraphale can read a response—the tug of fixed attention, the sudden jerk of need. He smiles into Crowley’s golden eyes.

“We are safe, for now,” he says.

“Nggg.”

He holds back a laugh—though he knows it will travel through the double-arrow that pierces both his spirit and Crowley’s. He can feel the demon struggle with temptation. Dear old serpent…

“We are home, and safe, and free. We can be whatever we might want. Try whatever we might have dreamed of.”

Crowley’s breathing picks up. The slit-pupils of his eyes expand, until they are a dark eclipse of the shining suns. Aziraphale’s heart thuds.

Yes, the angel thinks. Good signs. Body signs, not spirit alone. He has long thought he and his demon would choose this, if they dared.

They are old hands, with more experience of Earth than anyone else of the Celestial pantheon, though Aziraphale would not want to pit them against the Hindu or Buddhist hierarchies, so rich in reincarnations, kalpa after kalpa, re-Creation after re-Creation. People say they have gone native.

People are right. They are addicted, in their way. Earth is so full of savor and flavor, of taste and touch, sound and sight, scents that boil through the air, complexities of interaction that Heaven’s rigid lot have not heard of, nor all Hell’s minions dreamt. The humans—so passionate, so foolish, so…so…intense.

Just as he and Crowley have drunk down wine and sampled cheese, laughed and cried over plays, marveled at art, been stunned by humanity's machineries of joy and horror, they have witnessed the intensity of human desire and love—most of all, of the two co-mingled. Aziraphale knows he has longed to know what it would be like to love his demon in the manner to be expected of two old Earth hands gone native: the blend of aetheric spiritual love, human words, and human desire.

To Heaven and Hell it is at best kinky: role play verging on bestiality. To Aziraphale and Crowley? It is to find their own proper mode in this, their own proper compromise world, a blend of celestial, infernal, and human.

“Do you desire this?” He uses the quaint, specific word. Not want—“desire.”

Crowley blushes, the effect dark on his odd, sallow skin. Then unexpected so soon, laughter blooms in his eyes, and in the thread of feeling that flows between them—a trilling saxophone solo, chortling above the thud-thud-thud of their heartbeats.

“Shall we their fond pageant see?”

“Ah. You always did prefer the funny ones. I suppose we are reduced to mortal folly,” Aziraphale says, then adds, softly, “As much so as poor, sulky Oberon and donkey-enchanted Titania. The humans weren’t the only buffoons in the play, were they?”

As answer, Crowley turns his wrists in their gentle shackles, moving until he can pull back and clasp Aziraphale’s hands. “Shut up—idiot.” The tones are so fond as to negate any insult. “C’mere.” He tugs—then gasps a second time, amazed as Aziraphale flows up against him, hands releasing hands to instead find the curve of nape and arch of skull—to ruffle through dark, brooding red hair—fist, tug, pull Crowley down into a kiss that moves so quickly from gentle greeting to open-mouthed passion the demon is left gasping and longing to stop time.

“You go too fast for me, angel…” But he doesn’t mean it, instead diving into the kiss himself, gripping his angel’s shoulders tight, exploring tongue and tooth and slick palate, nibbling the angel’s lower lip, tugging, nuzzling, returning.

The piercing sweetness of their bond, pouring their spirit back and forth, exchanging their trust and longing, amplifies the feelings of mere mortal love-making, just as celestial and infernal nature improve on mere taste and scent and texture when eating mortal food and drinking mortal drink. To an angel who chooses to pay attention, clean well-water is a climax that can go on, and on, and on. To a demon who’s into human sensation, a slice of bread and butter is enough to stay high on for years.

This? Lovemaking? For the first time in love? With another aetherial?

Oh…

Yesssssss.

“Let me.” The demon’s fingers are already unbuttoning buttons, even as he asks. Jacket. Waistcoat. Shirt and tie. Braces. Belt. Trousers…and he can already feel Aziraphale kicking off his beautiful polished brogues and toeing off his socks. Meanwhile Angel has slipped his hands inside Crowley’s jersey, skin on skin already, clothes riding up ridges over the backs of the angel’s hands and wrists. Crowley can tell that Aziraphale is going to strip his upper in a single move, like a snake shedding its skin. Until then, clever, skilled fingers, slim but square, workmanlike, find ribs to spider up, belly skin to stroke, nipples to tease.

“Yesssssss….”

Crowley wants this—had not know how much the word “want” could mean.

He desired this.

Hungered for this.

Yearned. Longed. Ached. Feared. Hoped. Needed. Dreaded.

All this boiling through the connection with the angel, and all the angel’s own desperate craving pouring back.

“Mine.”

Neither angel nor demon know who said it, anymore. The communication between them is flowing on all levels—through their spirit tie, through their physical responses, through their few, crisp words.

“Want to change bodies before we…? You can be anything.”

“Used to this. You?”

“Same…and hard already.”

They laugh, both betrayed by male bodies they did not so much choose as accept as useful as often as not. Cock butts against cock, straining as they strip further, skin on skin now.

Through the spiritual tie are truths even the best of lovers seldom manage to put into words.

“I have sought for you, my beloved. I have feared you—and fear you still. You alone can destroy me. You alone can raise me up. Thou-thou-thou art my oak tree, strong and wide and precious with shade. Thou-thou-thou art my treasure, fairer than pearls, finer than opal, brighter than turquoise. Thou art my breathing in, and my breathing out. Thou art my doom. Thou art my glory. Thou alone canst command my heart…thou, beloved. Thou.”

“Couch or bed?” the demon asks, as he hungers for what’s to come.

They are old Earth hands. There is nothing they have not seen of how it’s done, in six thousand years. They’ve even explored, often as “work assignment.” Never this, though; they have never given themselves anything like this. They are innocence and experience conjoined, one coin that only appears different when you flip it, and the image of one side is replaced with the other. The demon knows more about tender first kisses than any ingénue, and treasures them as intensely, with all the sensibility of an imaginative soul. The angel knows more about nasty and naughty than any depraved member of a Hellfire club or harlot madame, trading in flesh…and understands the technical options open to the bodies they wear—and any number of other options.

Their lovemaking is slow and sensual. It makes time, desires rising and falling like the tides, crashing in and pulling back in slow, soughing retreats like the waves. Sometimes they simply lie together, nestled like infants in a shared cradle. Other times their hands wander in knowing wickedness, caressing sobs of need from each other, drawing out the hunger into a fine thin thread they coil upon a spindle of desire.

The demon’s cock is weeping—the demon is weeping, shattered at the love he has been unable to feel in his soul since his fall, shattered as that love contrasts with the millennia of lonely emptiness. He can feel his angel’s love, hear it, touch it, grab it solid—and behind it and within it, for the first time since he was exiled, he can sense God’s love as well, feel the faint trace of a divine smile, sense a whispered, “Welcome home, my lovely boy…”

The angel is no less broken open. He finds in the demon all his own fears and hopes remembered. He has been witnessed, and understood, for so long—so long. His own sense of exile, so different from the demon’s, and yet so alike, finds company with the darling damned.

He plays with Crowley’s hair. Knits his fingers into it, taking mad pleasure when his demon gasps and moans at the tiny tugs he’s willing to inflict. When his demon lets him guide the lovemaking, pulling lips to lips, touching, tracing, tickling, teasing.

“Thou-thou-thou.” It echoes over and over, with a music compounded of Earth and Heaven and Hell as instrumentation. “Thou—thou with me. Thou in me. Thou.”

“Take me,” one whispers. The other is gentle, and then fierce, penetrating deep, but stroking his lover’s cock with such kindliness and generous spirit…and their shared joy howls around them, and a whirlwind shakes the spirit bond, and they are angel and demon and can make it last, and last, and last—until something in them together says, in a single shared chord, “NOW.”

Now.

The demon does it, then—stops time. They hover in climax, wave after wave, until they are sated.

The conclusion is as beautiful as the start. They clean each other with warm water and soft cloths. They dry each other. They say nothing in words, but the fading connection of the spirit is full of emotions, and they nuzzle against each other fondly.

“Sleep with me?” the demon dares to ask.

“I think I can manage that,” the angel says, now returned from his high Principality to a dapper, chipper fellow with a bit of tummy and a smile that breaks his demon’s heart. He curls around the demon, lays his head on Crowley’s shoulder, and sighs. “Thank you, my dear.”

Crowley, coming down from bliss, smiles to himself, but says, “Don’t thank me. You don’t thank demons, angel.”

“I can if I want,” Aziraphale says, and finds Crowley’s hand, and holds it firm, stroking long fingers with his own shorter ones. “You should play piano,” he murmurs, as he consciously chooses to sleep.

“And you?”

He hums softly. “Harp.” And then he is asleep, contented. He has done as he hoped, and carried his lover over the threshold of their lives.

Crowley, crowned in fire and robed in contentment, lies beside his sleeping angel, a bride in her linens, a unicorn in her garden, a happy, happy snake in the grass.

This, he thinks, is Eden. He remembers a white wing holding him, and smiles. He spreads wide his jet black wings and blankets them both.

It is a long time before he sleeps, but that’s all right. Who needs sleep when they’re this happy?


End file.
